The Northampton Bride
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: When Prince Arthur survives the Sweat but is left infertile, the future of the Tudor dynasty rests on Henry's shoulders from a much younger age. Nor is the Katherine at his side the Katherine of history. Loose challenge response. First in a series.


**The Northampton Bride**

 _1502_

 _"Indeed, His Highness's recovery is nothing short of a miracle and we should all thank God for it, My Lady Margaret. However, His Highness's health is still precarious, and will probably remain so for the rest of his life. I fear that expecting His Highness of Wales to sire a child to secure the Tudor Line will be a forlorn hope. I am sorry to say it, because I know how critical the future of the country is, for all of us, but for none so much as yourself or Their Majesties. I wish I could make it otherwise, and of course, nothing is beyond the powers of Almighty God, but as far as my human, professional powers go, it is out of my hands. I send my humblest prayers and apologies for this bitter news and remain, as ever, Madam, your most faithful servant…"_

Margaret Beaufort read Dr Caerleon's letter and closed her eyes on a surge of bitter disappointment. When the news had first come from Ludlow that Arthur had recovered from the sweat, she had thought that no news would ever be sweeter, except perhaps the news that her Henry had triumphed at Bosworth and was now King in fact as well as in name and by right. Arthur had lain at death's door and been brought back. What further proof did she need that she and hers were favoured by God Himself?

And now there was this. This…this blow. Arthur had lived, but he would never himself become a father. Never have a son to be his own Prince of Wales. Never hold his boy in his arms and stand before the people, head high with the pride of knowing he had secured the Tudor line forever. Margaret sank to her knees, letting the letter slip from her fingers.

" _No, Lord,"_ she wept silently and inwardly, " _This cannot be how You intend the Tudor line to end. After everything; everything we've suffered, everything You've guided us safely through, are we truly to lose the throne after a single generation? I don't believe it. I can't believe it. But what else can we do? What else would you have us do? Show me, Lord, I beg you. Show me."_

Suddenly, the answer crashed over her like a breaking wave, steeling her spine. A slight smile came to her lips. How could she ever have doubted God's favour like that? All was not lost. Of course it was not.

Rising, she pulled a piece of parchment towards her and began to plan.

* * *

Henry sat alone in his privy chamber, staring morosely into the fire. He'd hoped so much when the news came that Arthur had recovered. Oh, how he'd hoped. It almost hurt to admit it how much he'd hoped, given that he'd learnt a long time ago that there was nothing more painful than thwarted hope. And now he was paying the price. He should have known that death wouldn't release his eldest son without exacting some sort of toll. He should have known!

"Lady Richmond is here to see you, Sire!" A page's voice broke into his bitter musings and he rose and mustered some sort of smile for his mother, "Lady Mother,"

He sketched a half-bow as he raised her from her curtsy and kissed her hand lightly. In return, she brushed her hand against his shoulder for the briefest of instants, before rustling a piece of parchment at him.

"You'll have heard from Dr Caerleon?" As usual when they were alone, she neither bothered with protocol nor beat about the bush, and Henry found himself smiling. It was nice to know some things never changed, at least.

"Naturally. What he has to say about Arthur's health is a bitter pill to swallow. I had all these visions of what life would be like. I've had them since he was born. I always knew he was frail, but to know he's so frail that we can't expect a son from him and the Spanish Infanta…" Despite himself, Henry trailed off. His mother nodded.

"It's hard for all of us. But all is not lost. We have other means of securing the Tudor line."

His mother didn't spell out what she meant. She didn't need to. They knew each other too well for that.

"Harry is a ten-year-old boy!"

"He won't be ten forever," Margaret replied tartly, "And I've heard he's forward for his age. I'd expect him to be ready for fatherhood as soon as he's fourteen. And it's not as if we couldn't betroth him now. Goodness, we could even have him married now if we wanted. The Yorkist Kings did it often enough. Think on it. We either marry Henry off as soon as we can and wait for him to sire a boy for England or we cross our fingers and hope Dr Caerleon was wrong and Arthur is strong enough to do his duty by Katherine after all. Which would you rather do?"

Faced with that stark a choice, it was no choice at all. Henry paced the room for a moment, "I'll not marry Henry to a Princess. Not when he's still only the Duke of York. I'll not reveal England's embarrassment that publicly. If he marries, he marries an English girl of good blood and that's all. God knows the boy is a proud enough young peacock anyway, without giving him a royal bride into the bargain."

"I thought you might say that, so I took the liberty of drawing up a shortlist of possible brides," Margaret pulled another piece of parchment from her pocket and Henry barked a chuckle, "Why am I not surprised? If I know you, you'll have chosen Harry's bride before you even walked into this room. Go on then. Who have you in mind?

"Lord Northampton has a daughter. Lady Katherine. She's of an age with Margaret, so she'd be seventeen or eighteen when Harry is fourteen or fifteen and ready to start a family. Prime childbearing age. I assure you the girl is healthy and as the daughter of the Marquis of Northampton, well, we'd be hard-pressed to find a more eligible girl in England."

"Hmm…" Henry hummed to himself, then reached for the parchment, "I like your thinking, Lady Mother, but let's see who else is on this shortlist of yours."

"As you wish," Margaret stepped closer to her son and spread the list out on the desk in front of him. They bent over it, deep in conference within moments.

* * *

 _1503_

Harry laughed out loud and spurred his horse into a gallop, ignoring his tutors' protests as he left the clucking old men far behind him. He was going to Court! He was going to Court!

Admittedly, so were his sisters, the Princesses Margaret and Mary, but Arthur and Katherine weren't, so he'd be the only Prince at Court… Even if Margaret outranked him by virtue of her being Queen of Scots. They were going to Court to see her married to James, so she'd be gone and out of his hair by the end of the month and then he'd be the highest-ranking man at Court. And there were rumours that he was to be betrothed as well, so then he'd be even better off. He'd have the prettiest and richest and highest-ranking Princess in Europe for his bride.

How could he have anyone else? He was the only unmarried Prince left in England, and everyone knew how much his Lady Grandmother favoured him. And Father always took her advice. She'd have secured him a Princess at least as beautiful and influential as Katherine. Claude of France perhaps, who was also heiress to Brittany, or otherwise Katherine's niece Eleanor of Burgundy. That would be nice. Oh, she'd only be a child now, but she was sure to grow up to be as beautiful as her aunt and her family was just as influential, if not more so. And if she was just a little girl when they were betrothed, well, he'd have years to get her used to the idea of deferring to him, the way his sister Mary did. Which could only be to his advantage.

" _Yes,_ " Harry thought, " _I could be very happy married to Eleanor of Austria."_

* * *

"His Highness the Duke of York!"

At the herald's cry, Harry tugged his doublet straight and marched into the room, his head tilted proudly. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. He had to make a good impression on the Burgundian ambassadors so that they'd go home singing his praises and thinking him an ideal match for the Princess Eleanor.

He came to an abrupt halt when he realised that the only person in the room, besides his parents and Lady Grandmother, was a tall girl with honey-brown hair and green-grey eyes. It threw him off, so that his bow, which he'd intended to be smooth and polished, came out jerky and awkward. Who was she? Where were the ambassadors he'd been expecting to see?

"My lord father. Lady Mother. Lady Grandmother. You wanted to see me?"

"Ah, my lord of York. Yes," Father stood, gesturing to him to come closer, "Come here and let me introduce you to your bride-to-be, Lady Katherine Parr."

Harry's mind froze at those words. "Lady Katherine Parr."

 _Lady_ Katherine Parr? No. It couldn't be. He couldn't be being fobbed off with a noble English girl when Arthur had been secured the greatest Princess in Christendom. He couldn't be! Not when anyone with half an eye could see he was the stronger, the healthier of the two. No one admitted it, but it was common knowledge that it would take a miracle for Arthur to father a living child. Everyone knew the hopes of the Tudor line rested on _his_ shoulders, _de facto,_ if not on paper. Surely that merited a Princess, or at the very least, a girl who was a Duchess in her own right, rather than a mere Marquis's heiress! Surely!

His father was going on and on, explaining the finer points of the marriage contract, how he'd be given the traditional courtesy title of the heirs of the Northampton title, Earl of Kendal, and a household at Sandal Castle for his own immediately upon his formalised betrothal to Lady Katherine. That they'd be married at Christmas, but live apart until he'd reached his fourteenth birthday, when they'd finally be allowed to consummate it. That Lady Katherine was to take up a position in his mother's household upon their betrothal and they'd be allowed to visit each other as much as they liked before his fourteenth birthday, but their visits would have to be chaperoned. Harry, however, hardly heard him. He was too busy raking his eyes over his mother and grandmother's faces, waiting for one of them to take pity on him, tell him it was all a joke designed to tease him and bring his true bride – or at least, her envoys – out of hiding.

No one did, however and at last, his father stopped talking, "But I suppose that's enough details for now," he said gruffly, "You must be keen to meet your bride. Go on then, greet her as you've been taught."

There were a thousand things Henry would rather do than greet his bride, but he knew better than to protest. Temper might win him the day in Eltham, but not here. Not in front of his father. And besides, Lady Katherine might not be his choice, but she was still a pretty girl and he'd be damned if he'd embarrass himself by being unchivalrous to her.

He swept a flamboyant bow, the way he and Brandon had practised for hours with their dancing master, "I am honoured, Lady Katherine."

He let his lips linger on her hand as he looked sideways up at her and was gratified to see her cheeks tint pink as she returned his bow with a curtsy, "The pleasure is mine, Your Highness."

There was a light ripple of applause, and Harry's grandmother smiled down at them both, "Very pretty. This bodes well for your marriage. Now, perhaps the two of you could take a walk – properly chaperoned, of course - to get to know one another better?"

It was phrased as a suggestion, but Harry knew it was anything but. He set his jaw to keep from crying out at the unfairness of it all, and offered his arm silently to Lady Katherine. With a polite half-curtsy, she took it and the two of them made their farewells and left.

Once outside, and far enough away from his father's rooms that his actions wouldn't make their way back there immediately, he dropped Lady Katherine's arm and stared at her awkwardly for a few moments. What was he supposed to do now? None of the lessons in courtesy he'd ever been taught had ever touched on a situation like this.

"Would you like to see me ride, Lady Katherine?" he suggested at last, relieved to have thought of something. Judging by the way Margaret and her companions always hung about the knights in the training yard, giggling, girls liked that sort of thing and it would mean he wouldn't have to try and make conversation with her.

For a moment, something flickered in her eyes, before she recovered her poise, "If you wish to show me your skills in the saddle then I should be delighted, Your Highness."

"Splendid. To the stables we go then!" he exclaimed, warming up immediately now that some sport was beckoning. He took her arm again and they swept down there as though they owned half of England.

Upon their arrival, Harry snapped his fingers, "Luke, saddle Polemarchus for me, will you?" he called to a passing stable lad, "And bring him out here. I want to introduce him to my Lady Katherine."

"Yes, Your Highness," Luke bowed and scurried off to do Harry's bidding.

"Polemarchus? You named him for the character in the Republic?" The words were out before Katherine could stop them. Harry blinked at her, "You know your Plato, Lady Katherine?"

"My father ensured I had a broad education, My Lord," Katherine replied carefully, unsure how this clearly proud young boy would take to the idea that she had a swift mind of her own and wasn't afraid to use it if the situation called for it.L

The Duke of York didn't seem angry though. If anything, he seemed intrigued, "I didn't know girls could read Plato," he murmured, "My sisters don't."

"Perhaps not," Katherine replied, "But I am not most girls, Your Highness."

He cocked his head, considering that for a moment, before the clopping of hoof beats broke the spell. Luke was coming back to them, leading a handsome bay hunter.

"What do you make of him, Lady Katherine?" the Prince asked, possessive pride colouring his voice.

"A beautiful animal at first glance, Your Highness," Katherine answered truthfully, "But I'd have to see how he moved under a rider before I could give Your Grace a full answer."

Again, the Prince stared at her for a moment, before he threw back his head and laughed, "I owe you an apology, Lady Katherine. It seems I got the wrong idea of you altogether. I think I'm going to like you."

"Then may I suggest Your Highness calls me Kate? All my other friends do." Katherine – Kate - responded boldly.

"Only as long as you promise to call me Harry!" the younger boy laughed back as he swung himself into the saddle and cantered away.

* * *

 _1506_

"Her Grace has given birth to a beautiful healthy girl."

The words dropped into a silent room. The four young men seated by the fire looked at each other and the midwife waited with bated breath. The entire household at Sandal Castle knew how much the young Duke had dreamed of his wife birthing a boy; a boy to prove his virility and secure his position as the stronger of the two Tudor Princes. He'd even gone so far as to choose the boy's name; either Henry for himself, Edward for the famous Edward III and Black Prince or William for the Conqueror and to think of possible brides for the boy when he reached the right age. He'd been considering asking for Eleanor of Austria's hand – the very same bride he'd wished for as a boy - or else for one of the Portuguese Princesses. But now the baby was a girl. All his careful planning had been for naught. Who knew how he'd react?

A second later, Harry whooped with joy, "I have a daughter! Tony, Charles, Will, did you hear? I have a daughter!"

"Congratulations, Your Highness," Charles Brandon replied, clapping the younger man on the back, "Who do you think she'll look like?"

"Her mother, if I'm lucky. My Kate is the prettiest woman in England."

"That's not what you said the day you were betrothed to her," Tony teased, and then jerked his head at the door, "Go and see them, Your Grace. They'll be waiting for you."

"Yes. They _will_ be waiting for me," Harry gasped, whooped with joy one more time for good measure and dashed into the next room, where Kate sat up, holding a heart-wrenchingly tiny bundle.

Their eyes met as he entered, "Harry… I…" Kate began, but Harry cut her off with a kiss, "Hush, Kate, darling. Don't you dare apologise. I know we talked of a son, but what does it really matter now? She's here, she's healthy and we have plenty of time to give her a brother. My mother was the first of three girls before her brother arrived, remember? This darling is our Princess of York and so she will ever be. Now, what do you think we should call her?"

Kate glanced down at her daughter, who lay cradled in the crook of her arm, "I don't know," she admitted at last, "All the names we ever discussed were for boys. I'm not quite sure what to do with a daughter."

"Then let me help you," Henry murmured, "For I have the perfect name in mind. I intend to call her Katherine, after the only woman who will ever truly hold my heart."

Kate blushed, "Harry!"

"You know I wouldn't say such things if I didn't mean them," Harry breathed, before she could protest any further.

This time, it was Kate who leaned over to lock her lips with his. They kissed passionately for several long moments, their tiny daughter mewling between them. Neither of them could ever remember being so happy.

* * *

 _1507_

All of London was draped in black. Draped in black for the young man who had fought so hard with his precarious health for so long but would never, after all, become their King. Draped in black for Arthur, Prince of Wales.

Harry sat in the pew behind his weeping mother, stoic father and distraught sister-in-law, trying to keep his face in its mask of sorrow, as the occasion demanded. He supposed he did feel sad to know Arthur was gone, and he definitely felt sorry for his sister in law, who was now a widow of twenty without even a daughter to show for her five years of marriage to his brother, and a much-diminished value in the marriage market to boot, but he certainly didn't feel as distraught as everyone was telling him he ought to.

Why would he? Arthur's death left him Prince of Wales. He was Prince of Wales, next in line for the throne, with a beautiful young wife, a lovely nineteen-month-old daughter and a second child on the way. Why, it could be born already! Kate had been so close to term when the notice of Arthur's death had reached them at Sandal Castle that he nearly hadn't gone to Worcester at all for fear of missing the birth. Especially not considering what a difficult pregnancy she'd had this time around. The morning sickness had persisted well past the three months they'd both been told was normal and she kept complaining of migraines so bad they were making her vision go blurry.

But Kate had persuaded him. She'd told him questions would be asked if he didn't go and he didn't want to start his new role of Prince of Wales under a cloud because questions were being asked about his filial and fraternal sense of respect and duty. She'd assured him the symptoms were easing and she'd be fine with her mother and the midwives in attendance and begged him to go. And because he didn't want to upset her in her condition, he'd agreed.

" _Do you hear that, Arthur? Do you?"_ he sneered silently, " _I have a son on the way. I have a healthy daughter already and a son on the way. That's more than you'd have managed even if you'd outlived me by a score of years!"_

But then the Mass was over and they were filing forward to kiss the waxen effigy on the altar of Worcester Cathedral, and he had to concentrate so as not to show anyone the barely-concealed triumph on his face as he bowed his head over his brother's coffin.

His younger sister Mary cornered him as they left the Cathedral, "You've no intention of staying any longer than you have to, have you?"

Harry pulled a rueful face. Mary had always known him better than anyone, except Kate, "You know me too well, sister. I feel unnecessary here. My place is with Kate."

"Your place is with your family in this time of grief," she arched an eyebrow, making him wonder for a moment when the lively little girl he remembered had disappeared in favour of this cool half-grown woman in front of him. Then she hesitated, and reached out to squeeze his arm, "But then Kate is your family… Go. I'll make your excuses to Mother and Father."

Unbidden, joy leapt in his face, "How can I ever repay you?"

"Name the baby for me if it's a daughter," Mary chuckled.

"You have my word," he yelled back, diving away into the crowd.

* * *

Galloping up the sweeping drive of Sandal Castle on a frosty November morning, Henry was accosted by Tony Knivert, who ran up to him and caught at his reins to haul the horse to a halt.

The animal whinnied and half-reared, causing Harry to swear, "Curses, Tony! Can you not be more careful?! You could have had us both over! I could have broken my neck!"

"It's a boy!" Tony shouted, unabashed, "It's a boy, Your Grace!"

Harry's fury vanished. Throwing the reins at Tony properly, he flung himself from his horse and sprinted into the castle.

Kate looked a lot more drained this time around than she had after little Kathie's birth, but she mustered a smile for him as he ran into her room. He sank to his knees by the bed, catching her hand in both of his.

"Tony told me. You've done it, love. You've done it. You've made this country safe," he whispered, pushing her damp hair out of her eyes tenderly.

"Good," she murmured, "Good. I needed to."

"You didn't need to do anything. But I'm so grateful you did. We'll call him what we discussed?"

Kate moved her head on the pillow slightly in agreement, "William. For the Conqueror."

"Yes. For our son will be a conqueror one day, darling. He'll preside over an empire so vast the sun never sets on it."

Kate murmured, pleased, then gestured weakly, "He's in the cradle. I'm sorry. I was too tired to hold him."

"There's no need to be sorry. You've done everything I could have asked for. You rest, sweetheart. I'll see him myself."

So saying, he rose, pulled the covers up around her more tightly and crossed the room to pick up his son.

He took the boy to the window, cradling him even more gently than he ever had Kathie. William was all the more precious by virtue of his gender after all.

"Oh, I was wondering," he said absently over his shoulder, "How does the title 'My Lady Princess of Wales' sound to you?"

Kate didn't respond and Harry was surprised. Normally she was only too quick to tease him for his pride and bring him down a peg or two, even as she allowed him to indulge in it. He had just decided she had dozed off and to ask her again later when an odd sound behind him made him turn.

What he saw made his blood run cold. Kate was fitting on the bed behind him, her body jerking and contorting violently. She was coughing and spluttering, choking on her own tongue.

Harry had never moved so fast in his life. He almost dropped his son as he tore to the door and bellowed for a physician at the top of his lungs. He didn't care that he set his new-born son off shrieking like a banshee. He thrust the boy back into his cradle and threw himself towards Kate, trying to catch her in his arms and control her flailing limbs.

"Kate! Kate! Stay with me! Please! Stay with me! Come on, darling. It'll be all right. Just stay with me! Kate, stay with me! You've done everything else I've ever asked of you, do this too. Please! I can't lose you! I can't! Stay with me, please!"

But the words, powerful declarations of love though they were, were a helpless litany. Kate was beyond the reach of words. She just kept fitting and fitting and, by the time the physicians burst urgently into the room, it was too late. Katherine, Duchess of York had shuffled off this mortal coil and gone to take her rightful place in the train of the greatest Queen of all, the Queen of Heaven.

Soon, Sandal Castle too was draped in black. This time it was a black that truly matched the hearts of its occupants.

* * *

 _April 1509_

A multitude of footsteps broke into Harry's concentration as he sat under a tree in the orchard at Sandal Castle, reading a translation of Machiavelli's _The Prince_ for what felt like the thousandth time. He often read it when he wanted to remember Kate. They had pored over the book together numerous times, just as they had Plato's _Republic_ , discussing their favourite passages and talking idly of what they wanted their Court to look like when it was their turn to rule.

He looked up, laying the book aside. His mother and grandmother were coming towards him, followed by a host of courtiers. He noticed what his grandmother was wearing first, oddly enough. She was dressed in widow's weeds, which given her piety and penchant for dressing in sombre colours and a wimple wasn't too surprising. However, her companions were also all dressed in black, which made the reason for their unexpected visit obvious even before his grandmother stopped a half dozen paces away and sank into the deepest curtsy he had ever seen her make to anyone.

"The King is dead. Long live the King," she croaked, voice evidently harsh with grief for his father.

His mother followed her example, curtsying and crying, "Long live the King!" as the courtiers surrounding them fell to their knees. Harry froze in spite of himself. It wasn't that he hadn't known this day would come. Of course he had. His father's health had clearly been failing for months. It had only been a matter of time before God would call him.

But now that the day had actually come, Harry found he didn't really know how to feel at all. He'd never seen eye to eye with his father; had long been keen to make his own mark upon England. But somehow, even though she'd been dead over fifteen months now, he'd only ever imagined himself as King with Kate at his side as his Queen. He couldn't imagine ruling without her acting as his consort.

He glanced away from the others, down the avenue through the orchard to the rolling Yorkshire hills beyond. Suddenly he heard her voice as clearly as though she was standing right beside him. In fact, for a moment, he truly thought she was there. He felt her hand on his sleeve, the way it had been countless time before. He even smelt the tart lemon scent softened with a hint of lavender water that she had favoured since before Kathie's birth.

" _But I am with you, Harry. No one can ever take away from you the memories of our time together. No one, not even God himself. And there are the children. Kathie and Will. My blood runs in their veins. As long as they are with you, I am with you. Our son will sit on the throne one day. He'll preside over an empire the way you said he would the day he was born. But he needs you to teach him how. He needs to watch you be a King first. You were born to be King, my love, so be one. Be the King you were born to be."_

As quickly as it had come, the feeling passed. She'd faded, possibly never to be grasped so clearly again. But the rush of confidence she'd left in her wake wasn't gone. He was ready for this. He would be the King he was born to be. He'd be a King she could be proud of, watching down from heaven.

Sighing softly, Harry pushed himself to his feet.

"I thank you for your acclaim, My Lords, My Ladies, though of course I am saddened to hear of my father's death," he said clearly, reaching down to help first his mother and then his grandmother to their feet, "I will go inside and tell my household to prepare for a move to London."

"Very good, Sire," the words rippled around him as he turned and went back into the castle, drawing himself up as he did so.

As he went, a sudden thought popped into his head.

 _I suppose I should start using Henry more often. Harry is a fine name for a Prince, but it's not as kingly. Yes, Kate would agree, I'm sure of it. The time for Harry is over. I was born to be King Henry and King Henry I shall be._


End file.
